Elena POV:

The morning sun was a dull gray, struggling to filter through the smog of the city.

My suitcase stood by the door.

It contained everything I owned.

Two suits.

A gun.

My passport.

And absolutely zero photographs.

I was checking the chamber of my pistol when the door to my safehouse burst open.

Dante and Matteo stormed in.

They carried a volatile energy, dark and suffocating.

Sofia was trailing behind them, sobbing into a handkerchief.

"You vicious bitch!" Matteo screamed.

He threw a notebook at my head.

I dodged it without flinching.

It hit the wall with a heavy thud and fell open.

It was my tactical notebook.

The pages were torn, covered in black marker.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice dangerously even.

"Don't play innocent," Dante growled. He marched over to me, towering over my frame. He used his height to intimidate, a tactic that used to work when we were children.

"You destroyed the notes before giving them to Sofia," he accused. "And you wrote insults about the Don in the margins!"

I looked at the book on the floor.

I could see the handwriting.

It was loopy. Childish.

It wasn't mine.

"Sofia did this," I said.

Sofia wailed louder.

"Why would I destroy the only thing that could help me?" she cried. "She hates me, Dante! She wants me to fail!"

She buried her face in Dante's chest.

He wrapped his arms around her, glaring at me over her head.

"You are sick, Elena. Jealousy has made you ugly."

Matteo kicked my suitcase.

"You are going to fix this," he said.

He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

"You are going to go to the Capos. You are going to kneel. And you are going to tell them you wrote those insults."

"And then," Dante added, his voice cold as ice, "you are going to sign a waiver."

"A waiver?" I asked.

"If Sofia fails her exams because of your sabotage, you forfeit your inheritance. It goes to her. As compensation for her trauma."

I stared at them.

They were serious.

They were willing to strip me of my birthright, of my father's legacy, to soothe the ego of a girl who was playing them like fiddles.

I looked at the clock on the wall.

It was 12:15 PM.

My flight was at 2:00 PM.

I reached into my pocket.

I didn't pull out a pen.

I pulled out my plane ticket.

I held it up.

"What is that?" Matteo asked.

"A ticket," I said. "To Rome. One way. Boarding in an hour."

Dante froze.

He released Sofia.

"You're bluffing," he said. "You're doing this to threaten us. To make us choose."

"I am not asking you to choose, Dante. I have already chosen."

I picked up my bag.

Matteo blocked the door.

"You aren't leaving," he said. "Not until you sign the waiver."

I looked him in the eye.

"If I miss this flight, I will call the Don myself. I will tell him exactly why his new recruits are harassing a senior officer instead of training."

Matteo hesitated.

"Senior officer?" he laughed nervously. "You are nobody."

"Check the registry," I said. "My promotion went through this morning."

Dante snatched the ticket from my hand.

He stared at it.

His hands were shaking slightly.

"Elena," he said, his voice dropping. "Stop this. Put the bag down. We can talk."

I snatched the ticket back with a sharp, violent motion.

Cardstock is sharp.

The edge sliced his finger.

A drop of blood fell onto the floor.

I stepped around him.

"Do not block my path to power," I whispered.

I walked out the door.

The black SUV was waiting.

The driver opened the door.

I climbed in.

I didn't look back.

But as the car pulled away, I saw them in the rearview mirror.

They were standing on the sidewalk.

Dante was looking at his bleeding finger.

Matteo was looking at the empty street.

And for the first time, they weren't looking at Sofia.

Elena POV:

They say Rome was not built in a day, but I rebuilt myself in six months.

The European Syndicate was different from the Outfit.

It was colder. More ruthless. Infinitely more refined.

Here, respect was currency, and I was rich.

I managed the shipping lines. I sat across from oligarchs and negotiated with the Russians.

I wore tailored suits and stilettos that clicked on the marble floors of my penthouse like the ticking of a bomb.

I didn't think about Chicago.

I didn't think about the slums or the blood.

Until Christmas.

The snow was falling over the Colosseum, dusting the ancient ruins in white, when the package arrived.

It was wrapped in plain brown paper, stamped with the Chicago postmark.

My security team scanned it.

It came up clean.

I opened it on my glass coffee table.

It was the leather Guest Book.

The one I had thrown in the trash months ago, torn and ruined.

But now, it had been cleaned.

The leather was polished, smelling of pine and expensive wax. The spine had been restitched with meticulous care.

I opened it to the page where they had written their insults.

The ink had been scraped off.

The paper was thin in those spots, fragile and translucent against the light.

Over the damage, someone had written in neat, careful block letters:

*North City has heavy snow this year. You get sick easily. Stay warm.*

It was unsigned.

But I knew the handwriting.

It was Matteo's.

He used to wrap his coat around me when we were on stakeouts. He used to warm my freezing hands between his calloused palms.

A memory flashed in my mind—Matteo holding me while I cried over my father's coffin, promising he would never let me be cold again.

*Liar.*

I stood up.

I walked to the fireplace.

The flames were hungry, licking at the iron grate.

I tossed the book into the fire.

I watched the leather curl and blister. I watched the page turn black and crumble into ash.

"Trash cannot be repaired," I said to the empty room.

The phone rang.

It was my private line. Only five people had the number.

I picked it up.

"Vitiello," I answered.

There was silence on the other end.

Then, a voice I hadn't heard in half a year.

"Did you get the book?"

It was Dante.

His voice sounded deeper. Tired. Older.

"I burned it," I said.

There was a pause.

"Why?" he asked. "It took Matteo weeks to fix it."

"I didn't ask him to fix it. I threw it away."

"Elena," Dante sighed. He sounded like he was talking to a stubborn child. "We forgive you."

I laughed.

It was a dry sound, devoid of humor.

"You forgive me?"

"For leaving. For the drama. We permit you to come back. Sofia passed her exams. She is a Soldier now. We can all be together again."

He really believed it.

He believed I was sitting in Rome, pining for his permission, waiting for him to open the cage door.

"Dante," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Do not disturb my life."

"Wait," he said quickly. Panic leaked into his tone. "Are you still mad? Is that it? Do you hate me for choosing her?"

I looked out the window at the lights of the Eternal City.

I checked my watch.

I had a dinner meeting with a Sicilian Don in twenty minutes.

"I don't hate you, Dante," I said.

I heard him exhale.

"Good. Because—"

"I don't feel anything for you."